A Writer's Wish
by Minion and Megamind
Summary: "I was victim to a muted fury, a silent contempt, for I was unable to unleash any sort of rage as I was: bound and gagged, crying pathetically at the loss of my life. Oh God...I was going to die." - By Minion (A Halloween Story based off of Mors Et Timor)
1. Chapter 1: Fantasy

**Ello! Minion here! I finished my Halloween treat as of 4am and spent my spare time revising and editing with a sleep deprived brain. **

**This was heavily inspired by a wonderful although not well known film "Inside" from 2007. I highly recommend watching it!**

**Also I do not own in any way, shape, or form Batman with that in mind, enjoy! **

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It was the month of October.

School had already begun months ago and I was well onto my year filled with too many projects and not enough sleepless nights. Of course, I only had myself to blame. Yet in my defense, it wasn't always easy to meet the criteria of my teacher's demands—let alone _entertaining_.

For example, how was I expected to pay attention in a useless class like Math (near _remedial_ math) when I had so much more _important_ things to think about?

I mean, Math wasn't my strong point—far from it—but I wasn't that clueless. The ability to change a decimal to a percentage, simplify radicals, even _add_ fractions was far from invigorating. Then again I was nowhere near ready to enter the world of proofs, logarithms, and other horrors.

Then in my other classes, very few even demanding more than open eyes and a ready pen, there was _nothing_ worth my time. I felt so **bored**.

So I occupied my time with writing.

My many years spent writing first began in elementary with the wonderful support of my teacher who recognized something in my stories that wasn't present in the others; she, and many others, told me one day I would be an author.

I didn't believe them.

From elementary to middle school I continued to write, exploring new pathways—_dark_ pathways within literature. With Poe as my guide and the anger and anxiety induced by people, I carved out greater and greater stories—or what others would say _darker _and _darker_ stories.

Finally in high school I decided to leave behind my spirals of morbid poetry and never-completed stories full of Mary-Sues and sloppy plots, and embrace the world of fanfiction (or structured fanfiction) with my closest friend. Our shared love of Batman—particularly the villains—sparked a wild adventure through fiction and friendship. She told me to publish my story online.

I refused.

Yet as more and more of my life went into my story, saving me from the brunt of my misfortunes, my wonderful friend who was nicknamed Megamind once more pressed me to post my story, the beginning of our shared story.

I relented.

Little did I know, through weeks of nerves and the desire every author feels to rip their hard work to shreds when presenting it to others, that so many people would find something within my writing and _like _it.

Now, eight months later I was frequently posting and writing, always revising and editing, never ceasing to keep my imagination open and add more ideas or more events to the first half of our shared story.

It was through this constant practice of keeping one foot in the whirling twists of my story and a toe in the classroom, that I was soon burdened with near impossible deadlines and a burning stress.

Yet I enjoyed it.

School itself was so _boring_ when nothing was expected of the students but to regurgitate what the teachers shoved down their throats, so I, in some masochistic way, looked forward to racing the sunrise and gulping down cup upon cup of coffee in order to meet the due dates.

Only some classes, well _one_ class, invited abstract thought and encouraged creativity but AP Literature didn't even last an hour and that left _far_ too much time on my hands. Time I often spent in my mind.

Then the time spent walking to the school my younger brother attended gave me about twenty minutes of opportunity to lose myself to the inner workings of my story.

It was upon one such day, a chilly, beautiful day that I rushed through my way out the field of my school, through the winding neighborhoods, across the adjacent field of the neighboring elementary school, through a graphitized tunnel burrowing under a road, and stopped at the crest of the large hill.

Scowling at the brisk trek I then made an effort to calm my defensive mind and relax my tense shoulders burdened with the weight of my satchel.

Now came the highlight of my journey.

Sure the grass through the fields—especially that of the elementary school—were a lovely shade of green and the trees tossed their branches with a hearty sigh but the best part of my journey was down the large hill, passing the houses lining the street and peering into the winding outlets at each juncture.

My favorite although childish and slightly (in my own opinion, at least) irresponsible pastime was to imagine my story coming to life.

What if, I would think to myself, one day I would meet a woman like Revis (ignoring the fact that she was moulded after myself already) with a man like Dr. Crane or if I might run into some cosplayers—or better yet be stopped and asked if I was cosplaying or perhaps remarked upon my close resemblance to the character I had created?

Floating on my writer's ego—the vain, prideful monster that reared its head every now and again—I would often fantasize eavesdropping on some fellow students or random customers in stores, and hear a conversation about my story.

Despite the nerves that twisted my innards with each update of my story, the prickles of anticipation as I hoped to please my readers, and the harsh criticism I gave myself, each review acted as a volt of electricity, further brining the monster of my writer's ego to life.

One such pastime quickly became a constant within my walk down the hill. It was silly really, maybe my rampant fangirl was uprising once again, but during the second leg of my journey I passed a house which I dubbed Dr. Crane's house.

The prospect dawned on me when I pondered what house would Dr. Crane live in. I had already used my current home as a replica for 'the house' within my story, but that was a temporary setting and I wanted to capture the _exact _house he would live in. And so while walking and searching, thinking and imagining, I chose what I thought to be the perfect match.

Down the hill, the second to last outlet—or rather a squat cul-de-sac—sequestered amid large trees and quite detached from its neighbors, was Dr. Crane's house.

The house itself was slightly overgrown. Its brickwork was suitable for its age, the wide chimney and face of the structure was not crumbling, yet it had newer additions such as the off-white colour of its side walls and overhanging ledge. The lawn was slightly shaggy yet by no means unattended, similarly there were odd plants lining the 'flowerbeds' along the basement windows.

Yet the most appealing aspect was the ivy.

The ivy had been planted upon a grid of wood, barely three feet tall which was then slanted against the face of the brickwork and off-white hues of the house. However, it could not be contained and soon left the latticed wood, in favour of clinging to the house itself and crawling up its face, branching out to slither around the large window of the living room.

Perhaps it was the shade of the trees both on the side of the yard and out near the street or the large, two car garage, maybe even the basement or the dying garden on the right side of the house—forlorn sunflowers, dried into a husk remained a reminder of happier days—but something about the house radiated a certain 'Dr. Crane-esque' aura.

Once I had dubbed this house—only marked by the golden metal curving into the numbers _3795_—Dr. Crane's house, I began to find humor in it.

After some days of passing the house I began to talk to it. Merely a smile and occasionally a solitary laugh, I picked up the slight mannerisms of the building and sought to draw a story around it.

I noted the _'Beware of Dog'_ sign with a choking humor, sarcastically asking aloud if a mad mortician counted as a dog. Then I began to view the deadened garden on the right side of the house with a strange wonder.

Did Revis plant the flowers?

No, I had a hard time picturing that.

Perhaps they both neglected the flowers since they occupied the house (under pseudonyms or force?) and Revis found a morbid charm in dead flowers.

The answer satisfied me and so I continued on my walks, merely enjoying the presence of 'Dr. Crane's house'.

Yet one day there was a package on the doorstep.

A flash of pure _thrill _struck my heart at the sight of an innocent, cardboard box with white labeling tape.

Mockingly I commented aloud to the empty street, "My, my Dr. Crane…It seems you have a package."

However, I had to soon move on and the box was pushed to the back of my head.

On the next day as I journeyed down the hill, I eagerly awaited Dr. Crane's house curious as to what I might discover.

However, only after catching my breath from loud peals of laughter wasted on the empty street, was I able to remark (still giggling) upon the sight of an empty box flung across the front yard, half hidden by the spiky plants along the flowerbed before the ivy, "Well _someone_ didn't like their package…" bursting out into laughter once more I continued, "Was it from Joker?"

The humor lifted my spirits but soon I turned my attention to the road in front of me and left the discarded package to its resting place among the odd plants.

For the rest of the week, nothing unusual happened: the house was still, the flowers dead, the sign in place, and the small cardboard box was still in the yard only slightly dampened from the recent rain.

It was then I began to take better note of the house and in turn took great pleasure then utter disgust in the sight of lace curtains filling the living room window and slightly obscuring the upper-story windows.

At first the white of the lace was equal to that of the glaring sun and so I paid it no mind, but once I discovered its presence I was taken aback by another onset of giggles at such a feminine item in Dr. Crane's house. However, I soon speculated on his reaction to the lace curtains—

Would they remind him of his Granny? Had he left them in place from the previous owners? Did _Revis_ put them there?

Yet quickly I was drawn back to the thought of his great-grandmother. Perhaps he had killed the previous occupant (an elderly woman?) simply _because_ of the reminder of his Granny?

Despite my thoughts and the many explanations I gathered, I was dissatisfied and my mood was gloomy.

For a few more days I passed Dr. Crane's house with only a halfhearted glance, not taking much interest in its presence yet still acknowledging its importance.

Then one day, after quite a large rainfall, I noticed a black hose winding unto itself like a snake, sprawled out in the left portion of the driveway.

The sight brought a smile to my face, causing me to teasingly whisper, "Did you forget to put away your hose, Dr. Crane?"

Yet throughout the entire week and onto most of the next, the hose remained out and often caused my lips to twist into a frown at its sight. Such neglect was annoying and I wasn't so sure Dr. Crane would allow such a sloppy thing to go unchecked for so long.

Around this time I began to accept the offer of a ride from a friend and so I did not see his house for a few weeks but upon returning to my previous mode of transportation on odd days within those weeks, I took better note in Dr. Crane's house.

Not only were the curtains of lace but there was a sewn and beaded picture of a _cat_ in the far right window of the upper-story that faced the street. Its presence puzzled me and despite my unconscious hope that Dr. Crane would live in a house of his _own_ rather than continue to occupy houses of his victims, I found myself more convinced that this house was—_sadly_—a temporary residence.

Also around this time I noted the box had disappeared.

Its absence had struck me as odd, as though I had been gone for so long I missed something special like departing in summer and returning in winter, the act of autumn being lost in between.

A few days later the hose was out of sight.

My mood continued to fluctuate between amusing thoughts and sombre moods as I passed the unsuspecting house, in a normal neighborhood, within my mundane life.

Yet today, this chilly October day, I was once more journeying down the hill and was looking forward to losing myself to the whims of my mind and the chances of something occurring (very slim) around Dr. Crane's house.

Shivering slightly despite the protection a winter coat I bought during my Freshman year (I found the presence of my much-loved trench coat to be too conspicuous for public outings nowadays) I began to unwind from the stress of school and the _boring_ projects that I had no intention of doing anytime soon.

In fact, I was so caught up in my thoughts—more like silent complaints—of school that I had barely registered the presence of Dr. Crane's house. Yet the moment I stared at the oh so familiar structure then _gawked_ at the oh so bizarre presence of a **car** in the driveway, I tripped over my own blockish feet and faceplanted into the unforgiving, cold sidewalk.

It was hard to determine which came first: my interrupted gasp as I tumbled down, the loose feeling of falling through air, the **sharp** pain in my knee and hands, or the jolting blow of gravity on a sloped surface.

Either way I was soon peeling my face off the sidewalk as my shaky breaths filled the biting air. For a moment I could only look at the backs of my shaking hands then gingerly lift my gravel-grated palms. Yet the sight only brought a muffled wince and the desire to move from my _very _embarrassing fall.

Hissing, I began to slowly rise, my body struggling under gravity and my _heavy_ satchel yet the sight of shoes and a low, male voice caught my attention.

"Whoa miss, are you alright?"

Oh no.

My face flushed, my chest tightened with panic, my stinging legs shook: he saw me.

"I—ah—I'm sorry. I mean, I'm fine. Uh, thank yo—"

I hissed once more, my hair hiding my face as I looked to my knee—

Blood.

Torn leggings and moist, glistening _blood._

My stomach dropped as my strength momentarily left me but the stranger helped me stand upright.

Quickly I began to adjust my camisole which due to my tumble revealed more cleavage then I felt comfortable with while making a small mental note to give Revis a scraped knee sometime. Yet I had barely covered my chest with my wrap and readjusted my satchel on my shoulder than I looked straight into the eyes of Dr. Crane.

Dr. Crane?!

I was speechless: blushing, bleeding, and absolutely speechless.

"Are you alright?" he repeated, his voice sounding just as it had in the movie, "I saw you fall when I was getting out of my car—Are you hurt?"

"I—"

This couldn't be happening…

"I—um, yes. Yes, I'm fine," I broke out into a reflexive smile and began to limp away while holding up my hands, scraped palms outward, in the universal sign of being unarmed.

Yet his eyes—_Dr. Crane's_ blue eyes—narrowed and he grabbed my wrist, "Please, I insist."

I swallowed roughly, looking over my shoulder at the short distance remaining—My brother would be leaving school soon, my mom would be waiting…

What the hell was I thinking?! This was _Dr. Crane!_

"I—uh—Sure…" I breathed, allowing him to lead me to the house, along the driveway I had studied for so many weeks, up the cement steps, and onto the raised pavement leading to three more steps then the door…

That off-white, almost eggshell blue, door; the door with a glass inlay, patterns of lilies in its surface; the door of Dr. Crane's house.

For a moment rationality struck me and I realized this _wasn't_ my story, and I was entering the house of a complete stranger!

Yet with one look of those icy eyes (strangely unimpeded by glasses) and a tilt of his head I was enthralled and obediently entered the house.

The hallway was dimly lit, the colour of the walls unclear, yet I was quickly distracted with his voice filling the air behind me, "By the way, I'm Mr. Crane—Your name is…?"

I glanced over my shoulder, heart pounding in disbelief—Mr. _Crane?!_

I vaguely made out a brown eyebrow raising as he waited for a reply yet his hand atop my shoulder, involuntarily causing me to flinch, pushed me to speak, "Nico—Revis."

Well, if I was going to enter a strange man's house I _wasn't _giving him my name—Who was I kidding, I was hopelessly in love with the idea of him _actually_ being Dr. Crane and wanted to bring my story to life by giving myself my character's name.

But then again, wasn't Revis just the older, worst scenario version of myself? I mean, she's grown to the point she's more of a character and less of myself but after all that I put into her…Besides, Revis was my mother's maiden name and so it wasn't _entirely_ dishonest.

My mental ramblings were interrupted as he lead me to what I presumed to be the living room—why was it so damn dark in here?—and sat me down at the couch, taking my satchel from me in order to place it on the floor.

"Revis? Hmm…"

Part of me longed to ask him if he recognized the name but I was still in control enough to realize that as crazy as all this was, I was _not_ crazy enough to _truly_ believe he was Dr. Crane…although I wouldn't have minded if I was.

"So um," I brushed my stinging hands over my thighs nervously but accidentally brushed my newest wound causing me to inhale sharply.

A light suddenly illuminated the area closest to me but left most the room in shadows, "It seems you scraped yourself up quite a bit…"

I swallowed, my lower back tightening as I suddenly became _very_ afraid; whether or not he was Dr. Crane, my body was already reacting to his presence.

"Let's have a look, shall we?" he tapped my knee, or rather the area just above the injury, "I'll be back with a first aid kit; you should take care of that."

Although he left I found myself frozen at the _creepy_ way his words grated against my ears—Ugh, that voice…

Yet as I removed my soft shoes—combat boots were out of question with my skirt—and rolled up my leggings, wincing as it irritated the raw skin, I was _very_ thankful I had shaved my legs that morning.

What was I thinking?!

My face burned with shame but quickly rampant thoughts jumped from smooth legs to the _many_ opportunities given to pounce Dr. Cra—

"So are you in high school?"

My head whipped up as he silently reentered the room, bearing a small white box with a red cross atop it, "Y-Yeah, senior year."

Partially berating myself for my stupid replies, I struggled to not jump the poor man…

Yet he took my weak responses with ease, "I see…Do you have a career in mind?"

I nodded, warming to the subject as he kneeled in front of me, opening the kit, "I want to be a mortician; I might have to take a year or two off to raise money but I—" I paused, forgetting that most people required a moment to register that a mere _highschooler_ wanted to do anything so 'morbid' yet I found he was watching me intently with those blue eyes, not a hint of surprise within those lovely, _lovely _eyes.

"Go on…" he spoke softly then broke eye contact to ready the disinfectant.

"I—" I chuckled nervously under my breath, "I'm eager to get started…"

He nodded his head then began to gently brush away the bits of gravel and dirt clinging to my open wound; it stun immensely but I sucked in the pain as he spoke, "I'm currently in school myself—almost done with my post-graduates and already looking into possible internships."

"Oh?" I forced out, my voice slightly strained with the pain, "What subject?"

_Psychology. Psychology. Psychology. Psychology. Psychology. Psychology. Psychology._

"Psychiatry," he murmured, paying closer attention to a deep dirt stain.

I made a face at my easy mistake yet he interpreted it for one of pain, "I apologize if this hurts—although I'm training to be a doctor, I'm afraid it's not _that_ type of doctor."

He let out a slight chuckle which raised gooseflesh on my arm.

He was just like Dr. Crane…

"Did you grow up here?" I asked nonchalantly—or so I tried as I struggled to not knock his hand away from my abused knee and tackle him into the ground.

He shook his head then decided to pour hydrogen peroxide _directly_ onto my knee; the fizz of bubbling chemicals filled the air as he spoke, "No, I grew up in Georgia."

My eyes widened as I replied, my voice slightly cracking, "Arlen, Georgia?"

He lifted his head in confusion, "No, Savannah, it's in Chatham County, although I haven't heard of Arlen…Are you sure that's in Georgia?"

No, it's just a fictional city in the DC Universe…Although come to think of it 'Chatham' sounded sort of like Gotham.

"Oh…Maybe. I knew someone from there—or so they said," I rambled on, feeling more like an idiot every second.

"You don't seem to have much of an accent…" I remarked shyly as he finished wiping away the peroxide.

His face darkened—one might have mistaken it for concentration but I knew it was something else, "No, I don't."

The air suddenly grew very tense so I quickly changed the topic, "So which psychological approach do you identify with most? We've gone over it in psych last year and AP psych this year, so I was curious to ask someone who had been to college."

_Behaviorist. Behaviorist. Behaviorist. Behaviorist. Behaviorist. Behaviorist. Behaviorist._

"Humanistic," he replied, somewhat distracted by peeling back the tabs of a large bandage pad.

I burst out laughing, startling both him and myself—

_Humanistic?!_ No way in hell!

He looked up at me slightly startled and I quickly remembered myself, "Ah sorry, I just didn't think that the Humanistic approach was very reliable…I mean, think of the endless advantages of Behaviorism! The power of fear alone—"

He blinked at me, "Fear?"

Yes!

My heart sang with delight and my body warmed to the oh so delightful thoughts that arose when this wonderful (soon to be) _Doctor_ Crane began his intense and terrifying tirades on _fear!_

He furrowed his eyebrows, "I hardly think conditioning people through fear like lab rats is a beneficial way to treat them; people merely need guidance to properly address any abnormalities in their life."

My face dropped into a hard expression as my eyes narrowed.

This wasn't Dr. Crane—He was too _nice._

Bitingly, I retorted, "So how does psychiatry fit into this? Is it the 'client's' desire for medicine that prompts you to give it to them because I find that _extremely _hard to believe."

He lowered his hands, previously poised to place the pad over my knee as he answered, "Some people _need_ certain medications for them to even function—Once they're at an efficient level of living, the humanistic approach is very useful."

I scoffed and crossed my arms, "Yet you're still medicating them—Wouldn't that be considered an act of Behaviorism since it's the _reaction_ of the client from a particular medicine that makes them so corporative?"

He leaned back, shifting his weight slightly, "By definition Humanistic therapy is client based with only the welfare of the individual in mind; Behaviorism is an outdated practice that _ignores_ the root of the issue in order to _shape_ the individual to the Behaviorist's liking! It's all conditioning without giving any credit, any power, to the client."

My face was drawn into a hard expression as he placed the bandage over my knee.

How was it possible to _look_ so much like Dr. Crane, even to possess so many similarities to him, and yet be _nothing_ like him? I just couldn't understand how he _wasn't_ Dr. Crane; he was exactly like him aside for his lack of passion toward fear.

Fear…

Perhaps I could teach him how to access his inner potential?

A small, oh so very quiet, voice reminded me that this was reality and this amazing lookalike _wasn't_ Dr. Crane. Yet that voice was drowned out by a large, oh so very **loud**, voice reminding me of my personal agreement with myself.

Two years ago when I first began to write my side of our shared story, I put myself into the story as Revis: the older, worst-case scenario of myself. She possessed my looks, my mannerisms, my past, my ambitions, yet she was able to go to the dark places I couldn't.

After a while, I came to a sort of rationalization amid my chaos: as long as Dr. Crane wasn't real, I _couldn't_ become Revis. This agreement was my motivation and mantra, keeping my head above the churning water that threatened to pull me under.

Yet now I was rethinking my personal agreement. Before, I was afraid of, well _petrified_ at, the thought of being sent to an 'institution' and I knew if I were to ever get out of hand or lose it (and how easy, almost _tempting_, it was to just let go!) there _wouldn't _be a Dr. Crane to torment and manipulate me therefore I was forced to remain sane. But now, if Dr. Crane _were_ real, merely confused, then what was to hold me back from _truly_ becoming Revis?

"Revis?" he asked, concerned and mildly agitated.

I smiled widely, "Yes Dr. Crane?"

He opened his mouth to speak then blinked in surprise, "I'm not a doctor _yet_," he shook his head slightly then continued, "We should treat those hands next."

I blinked, curious as to what he was talking about. Yet when he gently reached for and turned over my hands, hesitating slightly at my reflexive flinch, I noted my bandaged knee and remembered my scraped palms.

My mind felt foggy, so blurred in its concentration but as I began to discretely look for an object to strike him with, I absentmindedly questioned with that small, oh so very quiet, voice _why_ I was doing this.

Yet I couldn't answer the little voice because my right, momentarily untreated hand had already grasped the base of the lamp next to me and ripped it from its socket in order to hit him over the head.

Briefly I registered his widened eyes at my sudden movement but I pushed that to the side in order to pin him to the ground in the off chance he was still awake.

After all, I hadn't _ever_ acted with such violence before—I only wrote about it. But now, as Revis, I would have to become efficient with such things.

Already, if his deep breathing and lack of profanity was any indicator, I was off to a good start.

Although we were cast into darkness I felt overjoyed. Here I was straddling Dr. Crane (as Revis no less!) and I was granted this wonderful opportunity to remind him of his true nature.

So eager to begin, I blindly fumbled about the room, momentarily leaving Dr. Crane in order to search for a light-switch.

A stubbed toe, jarring blow to my aching knee, and a few scraped knuckles later, I found the switch and illuminated the living room, hardly taking note of its furnishings in favour of staring lovingly at the unconscious Dr. Crane before turning in order to find a chair and some other means of restraints.


	2. Chapter 2: Obsession

**I do not own in any way, shape, or form Batman with that in mind, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

He was so beautiful…

I stroked the line of his cheek bones then down to his clean-shaven jaw with the back of my fingers, savoring the warmth of his flesh.

He seemed so much more **real** as he was now: full of life, a solid manifestation of my obsession.

Oh how I loved those dark eyelashes, so delicate and seemingly innocent as if they didn't harbor the single most chilling eyes to have ever pierced my heart.

Then those lips!

My fingers tentatively brushed over his slightly chapped yet plump lips, feeling his hot breath wash over the smooth texture—I wanted to press my own lips against his.

My hand rose to his hair, gently weaving through the thick hair, slightly gelled, although I was careful to avoid the reddened swelling just above his temple, half hidden by his hair.

I shifted my weight slightly, trying to take pressure off my injured knee as I kneeled before his sitting form, balancing myself with my left, disinfected hand atop his clothed thigh.

Just gazing at him, drinking in every **living** breath as proof that after all my years of obsessing he was finally in front of me, I found myself awed—

And **ravenous** for more…

I wanted to know _everything_—How he awoke in the morning, groggy or alert? Did he drink coffee? What food, if any, passed through those full, pink lips? Did his eyes twitch after a long day? To what length did he trim his nails, in what angle?

His hands were bound of course, sealed by duct tape to the metal backing of a kitchen chair and so I could not easily check without further aggravating my knee. Yet his hair, that perfect shade of dark brown, the texture both soft and rough, provided more questions.

What brand of shampoo and soap did he use? In what order did he apply them? How often did he shave?

My hand once more cupped his smooth chin, marveling at the texture of his skin while I leaned closer to inhale, my nose skimming his throat.

Mmm…He smelled clean yet possessed the soothing qualities of sage.

My hands lowered to his clothed shoulders, as I continued to softly nuzzle his throat, yet I was uncaring of the sudden pain in my knee because already more questions came to mind.

Would he stand tall in a crowd, allowing his broad shoulders already clothed in a formal button down shirt to signify his superiority?

I smiled deviously into the crook of his neck.

Yet what lied _beneath_ his shirt?

My eager fingertips trailed down his shoulders and slowly made their way down his chest as I rested my head against his shoulders, looking at his face, so close to mine, as it slumped forward.

Did he have any hair on his chest? Were his muscles defined or hidden? Were there are any freckles or birthmarks, or scars?

I sighed contentedly, my breath no doubt tickling his neck but I had no fear of waking him.

I smiled into his collarbone, pressing a chaste kiss to the clothed bone.

What made his heart race? What made him cry? How high was his pain tolerance?

My fingers finally met his hips allowing me to gently clasp the belt loops of his slacks while my head rested on his chest, closer to his stomach than before.

Did his skin taste as fresh as he smelt?

I heard a moan.

Startled, I pulled back—instantly longing to return to the warm haven I had left.

However, with bleary yet blue eyes—lovely, _lovely_ blue eyes!—he fixed me with a confused and slightly hostile look.

He attempted to speak but was forced to clear his throat—Eagerly I watched as his Adam's apple bobbed.

So fascinating, those tiny functions of this phenomenal man…and just like any phenomenon, I would closely observe him.

"What the hell is going on?!" he asked, his voice cracking.

I was speechless…

So much passion, so much life within him—

He began to realize he was bound by his wrists, ankles, knees, and elbows, "W-What?!—"

"Hello Dr. Crane…" I spoke softly as though he were merely waking from a nap instead of a blow to his head.

"Why am I tied up?" he asked, his eyes growing wide with fear—yet my goal wasn't for him to _produce_ fear but rather to have him _induce_ fear in others.

"You've had a bit of an accident but I'm here to help you now," I stroked his face lovingly, "It'll be alright Dr. Crane—"

He shook off my hand, his expression torn between confusion and aggression yet his voice was weak, "I'm _not_ a doctor—"

**Smack.**

His face was turned sharply to the side, his cheek red from my sudden backhand. Yet I turned his head to face me, my fingers holding his chin firmly, "You **are** Dr. Crane."

His jaw tightened as his panic rose causing me to sigh and release my grip so as to rest my head in my hand with my elbow balancing on his knee, "I didn't mean to scare you Dr. Crane—Actually," I straightened up, my hands spreading along his thigh, "fear is the problem here. You're not supposed to be afraid but rather make _others_ afraid. It's your life's ambition!"

He squirmed, clearly uncomfortable with my invading touch which caused me to smile at the shy behavior—He was just as awkward as Dr. Crane when it came to physical transgressions.

Taking pity on him, I removed myself from him entirely as I continued, "Don't you remember, Dr. Crane?"

He seemed unsure how to answer me, obviously wary of being struck again.

I leaned forward, ignoring my knee's cry of protest as my hand slowly reached out, "I'm not going to hurt y—"

He flinched before I was able to even touch him.

He _flinched_ from _me?!_

My hands recoiled as my eyes pleaded with him, "This wasn't what I wanted—" my throat tightened toward the end; I lowered my head.

"Wh-What _do_ you want?" he asked, his eyes once more adopting a shifty look.

Instantly my mood soured.

Eyes burning yet retaining a controlled voice I lifted my head, his blanched expression fueling my ire, "I want you to remember; remember how things used to be remember how you are—_who_ you really are. Maybe I've come into your life too soon, before you've begun working at the asylum—Does Arkham even exist?" my voice dropped to a whisper as I questioned myself.

Gotham wasn't real so wouldn't Arkham be false as well? He was here, alive yet confused—Oh, this could be like the alternate universes within the DC Universe. How exciting!

"What?—What are you talking about?" he struggled against his bonds once more, "Why won't you let me go?!"

I sighed exasperatedly, smacking my hands on his knees in order to boost myself up. Once standing I began to pace with a slight limp, "Because right now you _don't_ remember anything and most likely you'd try to escape and call the police using this!" I held up his cellphone which I retrieved from his pockets and placed on the stand the lamp had previously rested on. I had already been through the contact list, confused yet happy to see only his hospital, college, and workplace listed.

"Look," his voice became steeled, causing my heart to pound against my ribcage erratically, "You are in obvious need of…" he paused then after thinking quickly he licked his lips and spoke softly and clearly, "'assistance' and I can help you get that assistance—but you _need_ to let me go."

I was so entranced by those chilling eyes, that smooth voice weaving a persuasive tale around me, luring me closer—yet his pause was bothering me.

I allowed my eyes to slide over to a spot on the pale carpet and become unfocused as I began to review his reply intently despite the scattered reasoning of my mind.

_"—in obvious need of…'assistance'—"_

_ Assistant!_

_ I_ would be his assistant—although that wasn't included in his context.

_"'assistance'—"_

Oh, assistance as in the assistance a valiant knight would give to any damsel in dire need of help—

The black, rolling dust of the pestilence obscured my bright, fanciful fairy-tale in blistering gusts.

**Help**.

That's why he paused; he was avoiding using the word 'help'.

_"You are in obvious need of __**help**__—"_

Did he think I was crazy?!

Well, I was…but I knew this was real! This wasn't some delusion, some effect of my madness, _this_ was real.

Hostile yet wounded, I raised my narrowed eyes into his searching ones, "Is that what it is…" I asked calmly, "You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

I shook my head, bitterness filling my heart, choking the slight hope I had that this would end with little pain on either side, "What do I have to do to make you realize—"

I cut myself off, wincing as the burn of the word seared me over and over.

**Crazy.**

"What I'm trying to say is—"

**Crazy.**

I laughed hollowly, "I mean—"

**CRAZY.**

"I'm _not_ crazy!" I yelled, my face flushing.

Vaguely, I recalled him flinching and straining even more against his bonds, I even heard the echo of the cellphone falling to the carpet, but I was too overwhelmed to stand let alone cater to his negative reaction.

My knee cried out with the bright bursts of agony but I remained kneeling, my burning palms blazed with the added pain of my nails digging into the open wound.

Tears fell down my cheeks; my nose became stuffy and my breath jagged.

"Revis," he spoke softly, his voice caressing me in a way that I had longed for.

"Revis…" he repeated himself.

I slumped over sideways, curled into the edge of the couch cushion, my hands hiding my face.

"I don't think you're crazy, Revis. I believe you're going through some hard times and you're a bit confused."

His words were slow and calm yet I knew they were no different than a stick one would use to prod a dangerous animal one presumed to be dead.

_"—hard times—"_

_ "—confused."_

He wasn't interested in helping me, he was only wary of setting me off.

I wiped my face and fixed him with hollow eyes not doubt contrasting the rich green my eyes appeared to resemble when the whites of my eyes were red from crying, "You've been through some hard times too—Haven't you, Dr. Crane? First with your great-grandmother—"

"No Revis, I loved my Granny very much. She was a wonderful woman," he cut me off, speaking gently but with absolute conviction.

I shook my head, my eyes unfocusing as I spoke in monotone, "Your mother deserted you, your grandmother wanted you dead, but your great-grandmother—your _Granny_—maintained you. _Maintained_ I say, not loved."

While partially quoting him from the Batman Year One comic I had obsessed over countless times, I had hopes it would stir something within him.

He shook his head, "My Granny loved—"

I refused to meet his eyes but continued, my voice growing icy, "Is that why she tortured you? Measured your days by labor, your nights by terror? Was her abuse in the name of her love—or the Lord's?"

He deeply inhaled, "My Granny died not even two months ago—"

I scoffed, "Died? Perhaps then it was a mercy you lasted so long without first killing her," I met his unsettled, blue eyes without cringing away, "She abused you, Jonathan; ruled your life by fear."

He became visibly upset: sweat glistening down his throat, cheeks holding a trace of colour, breathing accelerated.

"She did NO SUCH THING!"

Spittle flew from his lips yet I continued.

"What of your school-life? Not even then were you free of your torment for you were the victim of those older, larger than yourself: the bullies."

He panted, wrestling with the duct tape once more, "That was the past!"

A slight smirk played on my lips but I forced myself to keep my composure, "No, it's the _present_.They taunted you, didn't they? Ridiculed you, excluded you, **violated** your very rights as a human. You were oh so very afraid—Weren't you, Jonathan?"

His eyes grew wild, his manner disheveled, "Stop telling LIES!"

"Lies?" I echoed, watching him unfold before my very eyes.

He was so fragile…

I titled my head to the right, "Why would I lie to you? I know what it's like to be alienated, scorned, _pushed _aside like I was less than all of them…" I closed my eyes briefly before opening them and continuing, "Children are so cruel, aren't they Jonathan? They can convince a young girl that she's not even _human_ and they can push a young boy to such absolute _terror_. But there's hope for people like us—We can help ourselves and no one will ever bully us again."

He seemed to be settling down, coming to a conclusion of some sort—Yet what that conclusion was I didn't know.

"That doesn't matter—" his voice cracked, "I-I've moved on, I'm not the same _weak_ boy I was then—"

"You were never weak…" I met his eyes, hoping to convey my admiration and compassion, "The pain, it hurts; the fear, it haunts; but you were never weak, merely ignorant of your talents—But even then you found them in the knowledge everyone condemned you for: literature, history, chemistry, psychology. Those are your talents, your tools. You had only to take these years to hone them."

Uncertainty wavered in his eyes but he did not look away, "You can't be serious about this—I—" he closed his eyes and turned his head away before turning back, blue eyes burning, "I can't even _begin_ to contemplate the ramifications of what you're even _suggesting!_"

"It'll be alright, Dr. Crane—"

His eyes grew distant, his voice detached, "Let me go."

No! I couldn't lose him; not when I was so close!

I implored once more, "Dr. Cra—"

"**LET ME GO!" **his veins straining at his throat as the sound of his voice exploded in the enclosed space of the room.

I flinched reflexively, fighting terrified tears as I pressed myself even harder into the foot of the couch, hoping to merge with the fabric and wood in hopes of escaping this hell.

Oh how I _hated_ yelling.

My hands raised, as though they would block the noise which had already penetrated my brain and struck a mortal blow.

Our panting breaths filled the air: one violent, one victimized.

"**Revis…"** he growled out causing me to gasp, a high-pitched whine escaping my throat without my consent.

I would have shaken my head but my body was shaking for me; I couldn't think.

N-No, I _had_ to get myself under control; I _needed_ to fix the situation.

A burning realization struck me with the strength to pull myself together.

I had to succeed because he **had** to remember.

"No…" I whispered, a hoarse and quite _pathetic_ sound filling the air.

"**Revis!" **he snapped.

I glared at him before staggering toward him, not realizing my legs were numbed and one was _exceedingly_ sore, "No!"

I grabbed his face roughly, fighting him for control but winning that control as I grasped his shoulder tightly with my other hand, nails digging in painfully, "Listen: you _will_ remember that you're Dr. Crane—"

"Go to hell!" he spit back, rage evident in his eyes.

"Hey!" I backhanded him yet again then grasped his mouth firmly, "I'm not afraid to hurt _you_, or _me_, or _anyone else_ if it means you'll remember that you **are** Dr. Crane. Do you understand?"

His eyes were steeled, a sight that weakened my resolve—

No, I had to remain strong; he wasn't Dr. Crane, not yet.

My eyes bored into his before I released my grip yet remained in front of him, ready to take further action if needed...

My train of thought withered and my heart wrung itself inside out as I saw his determination, his strength, in those pale eyes yet I also saw my own erratic attempts and inevitable failure in their reflection.

What was I thinking? I-I couldn't _remind_ someone, even Dr. Crane, of what he wouldn't accept.

But what other choice did I have?

I couldn't let him panic...

I couldn't allow him to call out for help...

I couldn't let him slip away—not when I had finally found him!

No matter _what _it took or _how_ long, I would convince him he was Dr. Crane but first I needed to placate the situation.

Calmly, I walked back to the couch and seated myself comfortably while feeling the clinging negativity of our arguing but also reveling in a sort of professional power that accompanied my actions.

I was in control.

A small idea came to mind, one urging me to do my homework or read a book—anything that would prove my utter disinterest in his reactions but I was too excited for that so instead I focused my attention on the corner of a large cabinet decorated with a doily spread across its top and waited for some tell-tell shift in my peripheral vision to inform me that I was bothering him.

Disrespect, a _major_ insult to Dr. Crane who had quite an ego, would have him cracking within minutes and to fill up those few minutes I began to once more question these strange yet wonderful chain of events.

Did his Granny decorate the house? Yet wouldn't he move away from her after he killed her? Unless he really did take over the house from some elderly woman—but then why would he have a hospital, workplace, and college listed in his phone? Didn't he follow his old professor with janitorial work until he reached Gotham?

Then again, how much of the comic was real? Was this universe some variation or collage of all his backgrounds? Was there someone, somewhere (perhaps in another alternate universe) writing this all down into a comic or some other form of media?

"You're just going to sit there?!" he asked, finally exasperated by the lack of attention.

I thought of ignoring him further but the moment I heard his voice every fibre in my body was drawn to him and the very thought of _not_ replying was ludicrous.

"Well of course," I responded like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "At the moment you're not cooperating so why should I waste my energy?"

He licked his lips nervously, "How am I to cooperate when I don't understand what you want..." at the sight of my narrowing eyes he quickly added, "I'm not sure what a change in my title—"

I laughed.

Did he really think that's all I wanted? Oh my! I was _beyond_ tempted to show him the comic I kept in my satchel, exploiting his childhood in detail, but I felt my stomach sink with uncertainty at the reaction he would have if he saw it. Also, I didn't want to scare him off even more by having him believe I wanted him to become a fictional character—He already _was_ Dr. Crane just not in full.

"Oh," I briefly covered my face with my palm, as though I had finally remembered something unbelievably simple, "Perhaps I should start over—Your title isn't what's important, it's your potential."

His eyes hardened once more as we returned to our previous argument, "Everyone possesses the potential to turn to a life of crime but there's no redemption, no _justice,_ in that—and there's no excuse for—"

I cut him off, my voice sharp but my posture nonthreatening, "For what? Stealing in the face of starvation? Stealing in order to pay for a loved one's treatment? Perhaps I should use less 'movie-styled' examples. What about self-defense? Fighting back because you're forced into a corner, overwhelmed, and _ripped_ to shreds by everyone around you? People don't understand what it's like to do what's not only right but _necessary_; people don't understand what it's like to be like you and me."

He shook his head, "Revis, _please _listen to me: there are places you can go where people _will_ understand. This isn't the only way."

I scoffed and spoke bitterly, "I've been to those places, sometimes willing, sometimes not, and they couldn't do anything. Either I was treated like a child, preached at and outright lied to, or I was pushed along like just another unstable teen whose cuts had been treated and mental status was nonthreatening to others and myself. No one could see past the plastered smiles and careful silence; no one _cared_. Besides," I shifted myself slightly, "I'm here to focus on _you_."

His emotions showed for a split second as I spoke, revealing a flash of confusion, curiosity, surprise, and then, longer than the rest, _pity_.

For some reason that ever-_loathed_ emotion struck me in a manner that left me feeling uncomfortable and almost...regretful.

Hoping to shrug off the unsettling emotions I continued, "I don't want to keep you tied up like that...I don't want to do any of this really," I sighed dejectedly, "_but_ it's necessary until you realize your potential."

He was silent for a while, head lowered and shoulders slumped, before speaking in a quiet, weary voice, "Honestly, this isn't any sort of _new_ concept. Did you think I _wouldn't_ have seen my accumulation of knowledge as the very _power_ to take back my life into my own hands?"

He furrowed his eyebrows, talking more to himself than me, "Did you think I wouldn't notice the foolish trust everyone placed in their peers as they openly revealed _vital_ information that anyone observant enough, _intelligent_ enough, could easily twist?

'Aerophobia, arachnophobia, claustrophobia, hemophobia—the list goes on and on…"

My heart felt as though it would burst with its rapid beating for although his voice was small and mildly condescending and his words were cruel, I felt as though he were reciting a ballad of his love—Ha, love! What a foolish idea, but such an _attractively_ foolish idea.

He lifted his head yet spoke to the wall to his left, "Then what greater power lied within medicine! The brain was so _subjective_ to chemicals and the ability to manipulate people with ease was almost _laughable_ in its low level of difficulty."

Oh my, even his smirk was a thousand times more breathtaking in person!

"Yet I refused to let myself be lowered to the level of _them_," he spat the word with vehemence then directed his icy eyes toward me, "I would **never** become something I hated, something like you…a bully."

I inhaled sharply, taken aback by the direction of the conversation and the consequent tightening of his grip around my heart, "I thought to myself for many years wondering how people could commit such cruel acts, especially on those who had no means of defense…Until one day I realized it wasn't a question of 'how' but _why."_

His entire being was so worn by the abuses he suffered; I saw the horrific burns of his past rise to the surface. Yet the sight didn't repulse me but rather I savored his marred countenance, instantly connecting with his pain.

'_Why_ did they feel the need to unleash their pains unto others? _Why_ did they take up a destructive cycle within their lives? _Why_ did they continue to **breathe** when they deserved nothing more than to die? It was then I sought to understand _why_, to influence that reasoning, and change the person behind the endless stream of 'why's so they would never have the means, the _how_, to continue their abuses.

'Yes, Behavioristic therapy conditions the client to appropriate behavioral patterns but that is no different than the punishments I received and while life-altering there's a sense of _forced _behavior; they hadn't changed themselves, merely their actions. Yet _Humanistic _therapy revolves around the client's potential to become an optimum human being.

'Imagine it…" he took a moment to partially close his eyes, his words becoming distant, "An abusive, repetitious man who is continuously condemning himself to a destructive cycle that will no doubt impact everyone that he encounters. Then imagine the potential he has to change—"

Bitterly I recalled my father, my first abuser, and his efforts to repent from his sins.

Religion became his priority and for a few months the abuses slowed then stopped altogether—then they continued once more, more frequent than ever, no matter his efforts at atonement.

He then walked with the superiority of a _holy_ man in all manners of his life and commanded 'his' household with absolute power, thinking himself to be god and expecting us to bow down like devout worshipers in awe of his glory.

"He doesn't," I spoke before realizing it, my words like lead: poisonous and heavy.

He opened his eyes to peer at me inquisitorially as though I was just another classmate, perhaps even a _student_, and not his captor, "I believe you're confusing the two approaches; merely conforming to a new lifestyle will not alter the life in question, only changing the _life_ can influence the lifestyle. I endorse the Humanistic method for its ability to alter the client and therefore dictate the client's actions."

I shook my head, tasting ash on my tongue, "I had thought you were merely ignorant to your true potential but now I see that was only a ruse—"

"A ruse?" he asked, staring at me with those chillingly pale eyes while his voice held the burning lash of a slap.

Dread bloomed in my stomach.

"Was it a ruse to confront my conditioned fears, to commit myself to a life of dedication to the very subject which accosted me daily, sowing layers and layers of **fear** into my mind? I think not; it was _tact_," he stated sharply.

One unforeseen problem with my task: I was helplessly in love with Dr. Crane—not the Irish actor on which his appearance was based but the actual character himself.

Brown hair, sandy hair, red hair, blue eyes, green eyes, glasses, pointed ears, pointed chin, wrinkles—no matter the incarnation I was smitten. And so, when he began to _act_ like his true self I found myself well exceeding my melting point and on the verge of either giggling like a schoolgirl (which I technically was...) or straddling him with no intention of releasing him from my arms.

Yet my reaction was in two parts: one part hazardous fangirl, one part terrified victim.

I had already begun a succession of slight tremors, sometimes going half a minute before being interrupted with an uncontrollable spasm. Worse yet, my cheeks were either pale or flaming at the intense scrutiny he gave me—and I could hardly tell which would be worse.

Oh wait, wasn't he waiting for me to reply? Damn why was it so easy to reply with wit or sarcasm as _Revis_ in my stories but so difficult for me to even speak intelligibly after listening to his cold soliloquy?

He exhaled tiredly (in regret of his perfectly 'Dr. Crane-esque' outburst or in annoyance at my frozen reaction, I couldn't tell) then changed his demeanor entirely, from offensive to resigned, "I need to use the bathroom."

At first I was shocked by his change of conversation but a lightning bolt of logic struck me before I could agree—He was trying to escape.

I hadn't succeeded therefore it wasn't safe for him to be off his leash...but there was no way I was assisting him—

My stomach lurched at the very thought, I closed my eyes briefly as terrible, _terrible_ memories began to resurface.

While fighting nausea I began to sarcastically berate myself.

The irony was so rich...Here I was, head over heels in love with Dr. Crane and now _presented_ with the object of my desire, but I couldn't stand the touch of a man let alone the sight of—

I really fucking hated myself at times—I mean it wasn't _my_ fault for the now ever-present revulsion toward men but that didn't change the truth...or my feelings for him.

He cleared his throat, "Revis?"

I quickly turned back to him, unaware my silence had lasted so long, "No," he was about to argue causing me to quickly add, "Not until we can come to a lasting agreement—"

"I've been working all day; I haven't had a break since I woke up; I ate my _lunch _over paperwork—I _need _to use the bathroom."

I couldn't release him and I couldn't assist him which left the option of clearing out the bathroom of possible weapons (and trusting him to not attempt escape while he waited for me to finish) or somehow ensuring he wouldn't be able to overpower me the moment he was untied.

Or...

I stood, a dark smile crossing my face as a scene from a brilliant movie series flooded my mind with amazing clarity; I had hoped to keep him in a comfortable setting and approach this in a civilized manner but I needed greater control over the environment and as Revis had frequently expressed:

_"Oh well, there was never something as too much head trauma."_


	3. Chapter 3: Submersion

**I do not own in any way, shape, or form Batman with that in mind, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Well, it wasn't a steel chain attached to sturdy pipes, but the tight cables binding his ankles (shoes safely removed) to the tub's facet with a foot of slack would be enough for now—Of course, I had to give thanks to the cables also binding his wrists together from behind his back but overall, I believed it would work.

Then again my options hadn't been very promising: rope, shackles, _zip-ties_ even, would be preferable to the odd assortment of cables I found in the garage. Also his request of the bathroom would be harder to appease with his hands tied but I couldn't risk him attempting to untie my uncertain but chaotic knots. Then again, if he continued to be difficult he could wet himself in the tub and be done with it.

Although I would have to be careful to not use head trauma as a usual method of subduing him, not so much for the pain but rather the risk of death from stacked concussions (did he have a concussion?) was _not_ something I desired. Not to mention yet _another _injury to the head _really _wasn't beneficial for building trust between us—or at least enough trust for him to take me seriously.

I blinked in surprise as I realized he was awake; the flutter of his eyes, the crease of his pained brow startled me despite staring at his face while I thought.

"Hello again," I spoke softly, cheerily almost, "I apologize for the constant...well, change of scenery but it was necessary...Now are you ready to continue? As you can see the toilet is right here and if you cooperate you can use it."

A grim thought of him using the toilet in front of me flashed through my head but I brushed it aside, I'd deal with that when—or if—it happened.

He tried to gain his bearings but with more difficulty than before—

Damn, if I had given him a concussio—

"Wh..." he began then shook his head, rubbing it into the cold ceramic of the tub.

He was silent for a minute causing me to wonder if he was falling unconscious again but when I shot forward in order to make sure he was alright I noticed him sneak a glimpse under his eyelids and stopped midway.

Was he trying to fool me?

Hmph, how very crafty _Dr. Crane_ but I was smarter than that...or at least I hoped so—for the sake of us both.

"Come now, what's the point in playing games? I'm here to help you and you're only making this more difficult. Surely those psychology courses you went through must have taught you _something_—"

"Yeah..." he mumbled before tilting his head as condescendingly as he was able from his pathetic position in the tub, "I was taught the methods of operant conditioning and while you're doing a _great_ job, might I make a hypothesis of my own?"

Unsure what to do, pin-pricks of panic stabbing my chest and arms, I nodded.

"You're going to _fail_."

I furrowed my eyebrows, about to retort when he continued, "And do you know why? You followed the conditioning techniques quite well: controlled setting, discrimitive stimuli, aversive reinforcement, acts of positive and negative punishments, and so on but you didn't take into account what's so painfully obvious.

'You see, psychology _has_ given me priceless knowledge and even greater tools, one of which is the ability to see this for what it is: an act of irrational insecurity, an offset of some pre-existing obsession following the order of a _delusional_ mindset."

I sharply inhaled, the stark words only brought to mind my previous observation of my frenzied attempts and his steeled resolution—

No, I could finish this...I had to make him rememb—

"In fact, you fit Einstein's definition of insanity quite well: repeating the same act over and over, and expecting a different result. That's what this is: insanity. I'll never give in and you're stuck in a cycle of failure—"

I slammed my fist against the wall, ignoring the pain as I snapped, "Enough!" angrily I shifted, resting on my haunches, "What your psychology courses _should_ have taught you was the dangers in rebelling against those in higher authority than yourself. Now until you can cooperate, you shouldn't speak at all."

Risking a head-butt, I leaned over him briefly in order to grasp the moist bar of soap within the shower's cubby-hole. Taking a similar risk of being bitten, I wrestled his jaw open and shoved it deep inside, hoping his teeth scrapped the soap enough for it to be securely wedged in place.

He gagged, coughing but unable to dispel the foul-tasting soap.

Good.

Muffled strains could be heard but it was his eyes that captured my attention.

How could he be so loathing, so _superior_, when _I_ was in control?

Nevermind that, I needed to put some distance between us in order to let this lesson sink in as the taste of the soap drove him mad.

Wordlessly, I left the room, closing the door securely and noting the lack of a lock on the outside. While I would have loved to boast of clearing the bathroom of all weapons and reversing the doorknobs so the lock would be on the outside, I was too worried at the thought of him waking to linger longer than necessary.

Oh well, I'd tend to that later because despite his berating he did remind me of an important stimulus involved in classical and operant conditioning alike—or maybe that was my growling stomach...

...

Well despite the difficulties of maneuvering in a new kitchen I felt proud of myself, only passing twenty minutes as I prepared a dish and added everything I needed to successfully convince him to behave.

Despite my pride, doubts tugged at my mind bringing my fears of him escaping and either calling for help or lying in wait to ambush me to the front of my mind when I opened the door to the bathroom and walked inside I was scared and relieved to note he was still bound and gagged _and_ furious despite the expression of disgust at the taste of the soap—or was the disgust directed toward me?

Taking a reassuring breath I strode forth as though I was full of confidence instead of insecurity, "Are you ready to cooperate?"

He didn't respond for a moment, clinging to his stubbornness but then nodded.

I smiled, "Good."

Yet when I neared him I made sure to hold him down by his throat, not choking him but merely reinforcing the power I held over him as I wrestled the soap out of his mouth.

Backing away safely and removing my hand, I watched him turn his head and spit trying to rid his mouth of the fowl taste, "Would you like some water to clean out your mouth?"

He eyed me warily before nodding again and then eagerly accepted the shifty straw sticking out of the cup of water I held near him.

Absentmindedly I wondered if combining soap and water would turn the inside of his mouth to a sudsy mess but quickly I had to take the water and straw back as he pulled away—

Only to spit the water in my face.

I sputtered slightly at the shock of being spit at with a mouth full of _soapy water_ but soon my rising fury won over my disgust as I used a corner of a decorative towel on a towel-rack to dry my face.

Is that how he wanted to do this?

Stonily I spoke, "I had brought you some food but I don't think you deserve it."

He clenched his jaw, attempting to not shift around too much as if he could pretend the awkward positioning didn't bother him, but remained silent.

Part of me wanted to drink a bit of the smoothie I created in order to make it seem more enticing but I doubted he would want anything I touched. Besides he wasn't deserving of a treat...

A wide smile split my face with a sudden intensity that surprised me and caught him off guard as well.

Normally that smile was reserved for private instances like writing at late hours, music distancing the world into a coloured blur while my fingers tapped a pattern of letters which brought to life my mad musings. Nothing filled me with the highest mania than a sudden burst of inspiration or a particular phrase, maybe event, that felt so _right_ it drove me to an instant explosion of energy.

Of course there were other instances in which the _public_ became unwilling witnesses to my unrestrained glee as I read reviews from my story, but generally people were spared from the intensity—_Generally_, because after being the unwilling victim of my creepy smile, I doubted he would ever view me the same.

Yet how could I push down the electrifying feeling when such a _brilliant_ idea entered my mind? It was a common thread I visited throughout oneshots, verbal allusions, and the occasional chapter: waterboarding.

Not that I would _actually_ act out something to that degree of trauma but a good dose of _fear_ should have him more compliant.

Wordlessly I edged to the right of the tub, gingerly working around my stiff and sore knee, in order to turn the knob to the hottest degree possible.

Instantly the water poured out of the facet and almost as quickly he shot up, awkwardly supporting himself with his abdominal muscles straining and numbed arms struggling. However, the momentum of his movements was abruptly stopped by the short cord, now taut, that causing him to slip back, wiggling around as scalding water hit his socked feet and began to drench his leg.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

I glanced at him, a faint twitch of my previous smile threatening to resurface but the rising steam should have obscured the slight slip up.

Patiently, I moved to the toilet and sat down on its closed lid, watching him struggle oh so deliciously...

"Hey!" he shouted, "Turn that off!"

Yet I said nothing, merely observing him slosh around in the rising water. I had already pushed the stopper in the tub before dragging him inside (and how difficult _that_ was! I had so much more respect for the effort of kidnappers—Well, in a black humor sort of way...) so I had no fear of the water draining away uselessly.

And oh that water was _not_ going to waste as it drenched his struggling body, plastering his clothes to his skin as the steam rose—

Mmm...this _was_ a brilliant idea!

He once more sought to sit up, trying to balance himself without pulling too much on his bound ankles but merely flopped around like a fish out of water...Sort of ironic seeing as his 'tank' was being filled with water.

"What's wrong with you?! Turn it off!"

The water level continued to rise almost equal with the height of his horizontal body—or so it _would_ be if he didn't insist on struggling and creating waves, sometimes splashing water onto the floor or my leg.

Yet I didn't mind, there was something _magical_ about sharing the same event as he was...the same water...the same heat.

"H-Hey!" he called out once more, growing more uncertain as he saw I wasn't moving and his no doubt numbed arms were unable to sustain his body forcing him to resort to awkward sit-ups every now and then.

The temperature of the water must have evened out for the steam was less intense as before and the tub was close to half-way filled.

The use of the tub had occurred to me due to the unnecessary time he _continued_ to waste, but I hadn't realized the full potential of the ceramic structure until more recently...

It was truly ingenious...First the shock and pain of scalding water, the panic of the rising water, the dread as it became harder and harder to move as his body wore out and the water continued to fill the tub. Then the raw _fear_ which consumed him as his face would barely have enough space within the water to breathe, but when the water stopped I would leave him like that...waiting, pleading, shivering as the water turned colder, growing more desperate as his body weakened further causing him to constantly slip into the water and partially drown himself.

Yes, he would grow compliant once more...

"P-Please!" he sputtered, drenched and wild-eyed.

The water level rose.

"I-I'll do whatever you want! _Please_, just stop it!"

The steam dissipated.

"Revis, I'm _sorry _but _please_ stop the water," he spoke earnestly, just _barely_ succeeding in keeping the tremble out of his voice.

The water was at his straining neck, the tendons and veins were made obvious through his exertion.

"Revis!" he pleaded, a sob at his throat.

The water began to rise to his chin and spill over the edge of the tub with his trembling.

A distorted plea sounded, unintelligible but pleasing all the same as panic overcame his reserves.

I paused, savouring his flushed face and pleading eyes, such mortal _terror_ apparent in its depths, before my hand shot out and stopped the onslaught of water.

Relief flashed through his face but it quickly darkened as he realized I wasn't going to drain the water or release him, "W-What? Re—" his voice cracked in a gurgled wail.

Hmm...I wonder if the water was already cold or merely lukewarm?

Oh well, it wouldn't suit my purposes to watch him much longer. He needed time for the punishment to sink in...for the feeling of desertion to clutch his heart in a grip so tight he would rage, slosh around uselessly and earn him some more breathing room before tiring himself out and slumping down in frustrated, desperate tears: deafeated.

I stood, slightly shaky from my odd posturing and took the smoothie on my way out, sipping at it and smiling at the sweet taste of banana; I'd return in the morning after a night's rest with a refreshed mind.

...

Had my mom called the police? Did my friends worry when I didn't show up for school? Did Megamind wonder why I never contacted her?

Guilt flooded my heart, choking me with tears I hadn't anticipated.

Here I was curled up on the floor, a suit coat draped over my shoulders like a blanket, just outside the bathroom in case he actually drowned...but where was everyone else?

It was morning, I could tell that by my stiff back and the new light streaming in the window but I hadn't slept well during the night.

Did she go to work or did she stay up all night distraught with grief over her missing daughter?

I closed my eyes but I couldn't close my heart to the pain.

She didn't deserve this; she didn't deserve a problem child like me...

Yes, things were difficult, I hadn't exaggerated Revis' past in my story, but that didn't mean that things didn't get better. I still couldn't talk to my mom about my issues or even my true thoughts but I missed her quirky humor and ready smile, so willing to take the world on despite the hardships she faced.

What of my brother? We were often trading sarcastic banter as most siblings do. I mean he was six years younger than me and other than a few moments of 'bonding' we were like familiar strangers. Yet I still cried from nightmares of losing him and regretted my distant behavior that no doubt hurt him.

How was my sister taking this? She lived in another city, was recently engaged, and lived a productive life full of laughter and beauty, strength and wit—and I always brushed her aside like she was an annoying sibling or amusing entertainment despite the fact that she was four years older than me.

Then what about Megamind?

The pain doubled in intensity.

She was the most important person in my life and definitely the most influential. Although I had only known her for a little over two years it felt like we had been friends for much longer. Between our common interests and mutual understanding of life's miseries, our time was chaotically random and amazingly uplifting.

There had been countless inside jokes, a million speculations and _hours_ spent over our story, and so much more priceless moments that were harder to explain...times in which I felt a stirring of _something_ soothing within my heart like cuddling with warm towels or walking through deserted streets on a wintry day.

How could I be so cruel? So selfish?

I felt the urge to find the cell-phone and call her, call everyone, but I knew I couldn't do that—Well, maybe I could with Megamind but not with my mom.

I scrunched my eyes even more tightly.

I _hated_ hurting her...I saw what the suicide of her closest friend did to her and I couldn't imagine—well, I didn't _want_ to imagine—the effect of my absence.

I shivered at the thought of my punishment if I were to explain where I had been and what I had _really _been doing—What am I thinking, I wouldn't merely be _grounded_, I'd be sent to jail!

I knew I would drop everything if Dr. Crane was real but I had somehow pictured that being in a separate reality from my own...just a vivid fantasy. As much as the pressures of life overwhelmed me and the pain of my past haunted me, I had my moments of happiness and treasured memories of joy. The seemingly rare bits of good in my life now seemed so essential like the stars in the night sky.

Then what of my story? I couldn't continue that if I was to _really_ be with Dr. Crane. Yet the story had become so _vital_ to me, I could hardly imagine living without it. I understood one day, probably within the next year or so, the story would reach its end point and apart from assisting Megamind in her half of the story or writing the occasional oneshot I would have to move on to different projects but the idea of leaving it _unfinished_ just felt so **wrong**.

Oh Megamind...

That was the other bit of my fantasy...She was always included, for surely if Dr. Crane were real then so was Joker. Of course, I detested the mad clown for his abusive actions toward Megamind's character, Sable, and that hatred would only be magnified to an extreme degree if any of that were _real_, but I wanted her to find her happiness as well.

We both loved to envision actually living with our fictional loves; we discussed the ups and the downs, the dangers and the delights, but it was always a partnership of sorts. Perhaps we wouldn't live with each other in a chaotic household but we would always be in touch.

Yet was Joker even real? Could Megamind become Sable as I had become Revis?

Was I Revis?

Could I leave behind my life, my family, my friends, my _story _for the sake of Dr. Crane? Surely the pain would fade...

It would have to eventually...

Right?

There was a splash, the first in a while, causing me to open my eyes and achingly sit up, rubbing the sleep from my sleepless eyes as I decided I needed to get up and check on him.

Cracking my back and wincing at my burning shoulder (damn that fiery knot of stress!) I left the suit on the floor, hopefully out of sight as I opened the door, and walked into the room.

I wrinkled my nose at the offending odor of urine but quickly grew accustomed to it due to my habit of breathing shallowly through my nose, ironically but also effectively eliminating almost all sense of smell.

Yet what I could _not_ grow accustomed to was the haunted look in his blue eyes as he stared at me in a disbelieving wonder contradicting his stiffened jaw and stubborn shame as the act of his urination was obvious.

His hair was in disarray, his face ashen, his body shivering, "Don't—" his voice was a mere croak, cracking after one word.

Pity fought with triumph at the sight of his shaken demeanor.

"Don't leave me...please," he rasped, desperation apparent even in his gravelly tone.

I tilted my head, all my worries melting away as I became focused on the amazing man in front of me, "I won't...Let's get you cleaned up."

I bent over and dipped my hand into the sullied water, uncaring of anything but getting him warm and into dry clothes—Well, _if _he decided to cooperate.

The plug was pulled and the water began to drain but I knew from the frantic expression on his face and the uncontrollable shudders of his body that it wasn't fast enough.

When the water was halfway drained, I took a towel from the towel rack and kneeled before him ignoring the pain of my knee, slowly drying his hair which he allowed without a moment's hesitation.

Oh how much different things could be!

Romantic musings of Revis toweling off Dr. Crane came to mind before I realized with a slight pang that they wouldn't ever be written if everything worked out as planned. Yet I couldn't decide if that was something to rejoice over (after all, I could now enact such ideas!) or to mourn.

Slowed by my thoughts I gently draped the towel over his trembling shoulders, partially hugging him in order to both transfer my warmth and support him until the water was gone completely.

"I-I can't f-feel my arms," he exclaimed, panic evident in his tone.

"It's alright," I shushed him, "If you will cooperate I'll take off the cords..."

He shuddered fiercely causing me to hold him closer, the silence only broken by his chattering teeth and the gurgling drain.

I suppose this was a sign of trust...

He was close enough to attack me but so far hadn't shown any aggression—Then again, this could just be a front so he could become dry and unbound then turn the tables on me.

"Do you want some dry clothes?" I asked softly, "Something to eat?"

I couldn't tell if he was shivering or nodding so I attempted to pull away to check but a pained gasp escaped him as he lunged forward, struggling to stay in my arms.

I smiled at his childish actions...

"It's alright...I'm not going to leave you. I'm going to help you," I rubbed his back soothingly while noting the water had drained completely.

I tried to pull away again but once more he fought to remain where he was causing me to chuckle slightly, "I'm going to cut the cord so you can get out of the tub, is that alright?"

Although his trembling increased he leaned back, fear dominating his entire being with every flicker of his wild eyes bearing, dilated pupils, frenzied breathing, and uncontrollable tremors.

Great, now I had to figure out how to cut the cords without making a fool of myself. There was no way I could untie them...and I doubted he had a razor strong enough—Oh the knife...

Earlier I had used a knife from the kitchen to cut his duct-taped restraints and left it out in the living room.

Carefully I took his trembling jaw in my hand as I spoke clearly, "I'm going to get a knife from the living room. I'll leave the door open and be back as soon as I can."

His breathing increased, verging on hyperventilation but I forced myself away and returned as I promised, without wasting a second.

Shakily I set out with a fast pace on the cord, determined to cut the slack anchoring him to the tub's facet while not freeing his ankles.

At first the plastic gave way without much work but the metal underneath took more effort causing me to huff slightly, my face growing warm with the exertion. I increased my pace, careful to not go so fast that if it suddenly gave way I would cut his foot or my hand as the knife glanced off the slick surface of the tub.

A few more frenzied attempts passed before I was successful and freed him without injuring either of us.

I expected him to bounce out of the tub, most likely hurting himself in the process but uncaring as long as he was free, but he remained inside shuddering violently.

If anything he reminded me of time Batman turned his fear toxin against himself but now it was a thousand times worse, so much more **real.**

There was a stab of pity but I quickly sought to place the knife behind the toilet and then return to help him sit on the edge of the tub despite his boneless body.

_That_ endeavor was more difficult that placing him _inside_ the tub and with each slip causing him to smack a lifeless elbow or sore rib against the hard ceramic surface, I winced along with him.

Yet when he was safely balanced I helped him made the transition from the tub to the closed toilet sacrificing the stability of the wall for the lack of risk should he fall backward.

Already prepared for this, I left him wavering from side to side in order to retrieve the clothes I had stacked and used as a pillow just outside the door. I placed these on the counter next to him but didn't move away.

Instead I carefully placed a hand on his shoulder covered by a damp towel, "I can untie you if you agree to cooperate. You can change into these clothes and I'll make you something to eat. Do you want that?"

He seemed so distant but before I could repeat myself he replied, "Isn't someone looking for you?"

I froze.

He cleared his throat, "Isn't someone missing you? You can't stay here forever; you can't leave everything behind...not when you have so much to lose."

I felt my weak legs begin to tremble but locked my knees so as to put an end to the motion while also withdrawing my hand from his shoulder, "You shouldn't make assumptions..."

"You're someone's daughter..." he whispered.

I paused, unsure how to respond but after a moment's pause I cleared my throat, "Do we have an agreement?"

He weakly tilted his head up, the shock of blue eyes piercing my heart, "Please Revis..."

I laughed hollowly, "Oh my," tenderly I brushed my fingers along his hair line, carefully to avoid the swollen side, "It seems you're in need of a haircut. We'll have to take care of that sometime, won't we?"

The hope faded from his eyes as he nodded in what would have normally been a resigned manner if he wasn't so obviously exhausted.

"If you want you can take a shower..." the shock in his eyes caused me to quickly change the topic, "Nevermind, I'll be waiting outside—that is _if_ you're going to cooperate with me?"

He wavered, so uncertain but so overwrought; finally he spoke, "I can't—I'm going to need help..." I was going to ask for clarification but he continued hastily, a light blush colouring his cheeks as he looked away, "getting dressed."

Oh my...


	4. Chapter 4: Spark

**I do not own in any way, shape, or form Batman with that in mind, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Controlled setting: check.

Clean clothes: check.

Food: check.

Training: ?

Well, this was harder than I thought it would be...

Surprisingly it wasn't awkward at all, in fact, everything was _perfect_. It was an amazing fantasy to _live_ in, a fantasy where Dr. Crane (well, _Mr._ Crane) was sitting comfortably atop a bar-stool across the table from mine, eating breakfast which I had prepared. Of course, the idea of him cooking (did he cook well or live off the microwave?) had me struggling to not turn a simple morning into a scandal.

Mmm...I could just picture it.

Sleep tousled (or _freshly showered_) hair would comfortably frame his blank face as he turned his back to me, shoulder blades moving beneath his shirt with each motion as he concentrated on the dish he was preparing but just _maybe _took silent pride in the pair of eyes fastened to his form. He would smirk, the expression hidden from my eyes but obvious in his confident air.

I would be subtle and clear, starting with a gentle touch along his back before wrapping my arms around his middle, hopefully not burning myself on whatever he was cooking. A loving nuzzle into his shoulder blade with only the slightest warning of tensing muscles before I was turned around harshly, berated for my affections, and perhaps punished...a lusty, loathsome punishment interrupted by the burning food and consequent irritation of Dr. Crane despite his equal fault in the situation.

Oh what a wonderful tease that would be! Perhaps I should include that in a oneshot based off my sto—

Oh...That's right, this was reality.

And in _this_ reality I couldn't handle something like that...

I closed my eyes, holding my head in my hand as I thought of the ever-present embarrassment of my flinchy behavior.

What began toward the end of my disastrous relationship with the devil I renamed Lucius for meager sake of anonymity despite my very public expressions had only worsened over time. Nevermind that I was free of the abusive, sociopathic man, I couldn't shake the memory of him from my body.

Spindly fingers, tightly gripping my wrists as he forced me down.

Hot breath, cruelly washing over my skin as he whispered in my ear.

Sharp teeth, angrily digging into my throat as he broke my will.

No...I couldn't so easily entertain whims of lust as Revis—Then again, she was raped and traumatized further than I and found the means to enjoy romantic expressions after a few years despite the frequent triggers.

**Years.**

"Revis?"

I whipped my head upright, forgetting he was there at all—Damn, I should have gotten more sleep last night.

"Y-Yes?" I asked, cursing my slight stutter.

"Are you alright?"

I felt shocked for a moment before I furrowed my eyebrows unable to understand _why_ Dr. Crane would ask such a thing and with such obvious concern in his eyes—

Oh, that's right...This was _Mr._ Crane.

Tucking a stubborn strand of hair behind my ear, then becoming _very_ aware of the fact that I had slept on the ground and was probably looking ridiculous, I smiled hollowly, "So are you ready to begin?"

He blinked, too slow to hide his curiosity but he still managed to school his features in the end so only the barest trace of fear showed through.

Hoping to set him at ease, I continued, "This will be fairly easy. You've forgotten quite a bit about yourself but I'm going to help you remember. We'll just be talking, if that'll set your mind at ease."

Although he suffered through a recent trauma, his eyes hardened slightly, "What caused me to...'forget'?"

Skepticism poured off him in waves but I was slow to answer, "You were in a bit of an accident—"

He cut me off, "And how would _you_ know this?"

Damn, he got me there...

"Because I've been looking out for you."

He raised an eyebrow, "You've been stalking me?"

If I could facepalm without drawing even greater looks of mistrust I would, "No...I've been," obsessing over you for the past two years when I thought you were only a fictional character, "well informed of your situation—"

"Informed by _who_ exactly?"

Fuck, did he have to question everything?!

Feeling my temper rise, I replied shortly, "Well, it seems you have people looking out for you."

He scoffed, standing and folding his arms across his chest as he leaned against the wall, "You know, I had thought that maybe you _could_ be right—that somehow I had suffered some accident which I have no memory of but then I thought: why would a mere teenager be sent to 'help me'? And why would she employ such extreme, _torturous_ methods?" cold eyes washed over me, "Perhaps you could explain _that_, Revis?"

This was getting out of hand...I needed to build a logical story—

"How did your Granny die, Jonathan?" I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

He flinched, obviously not expecting the question, "She—" choked up momentarily before coming to a sort of inner strength, "Wouldn't _you_ already know the answer to that?"

Well, seeing as there wasn't an aviary in the backyard—or _was_ there?—I doubted it was like the comic...

"When she died...that's when you had your accident," I spoke slowly, as if breaking bad news to someone.

Of course, this was _extremely_ risky, I knew nothing of his 'Granny' in this reality and I could either be manipulating him wonderfully or destroying all my hard work.

He paused, as if weighing his options...or the amount of truth in my words.

A sigh escaped him, "I..." he let his arms hang loosely on either side of him before raising them to inspect his palms.

Why did I feel as though he was watching blood drip through his fingers, each drop a punctuation to his deed, a timepiece measuring the grains of sanity he cradled in his hands—

_I stand amid the roar_

_of a surf-tormented shore,_

_And I hold within my hand_

_Grains of the golden sand—_

He frowned, as if trying to recall an obscure memory—or trying to forget.

_How few! Yet how they creep_

_Through my fingers to the deep_—

"D—Mr. Crane?" I asked cautiously.

Startled, he broke his reverie and stared at me in utter desolation.

_While I weep—while I weep!_

_O god! Can I not grasp_

_them with a tighter clasp?_

Slowly I neared him, placing a comforting (or so I hoped) hand atop his shoulder as I stared into his tortured eyes.

_O god! Can I not save_

_One__ from the pitiless wave?_

"Come now, Jonathan..." I swallowed, unsure how to approach the situation, "Let's continue with our plans."

If he cared or even _understood_ I couldn't tell, but he nodded distantly.

Eager to distract him and continue with the agenda, I steered him to the couch while silently finishing the last of Poe's poem.

_Is __all __that we see or seem_

_But a dream within a dream?_

...

I sighed for the hundredth time in barely two hours—This was hopeless.

At first I thought it was a mere matter of his mindset but then I realized it was a bit _more _than that. There was a genuine kindness in him that both confounded me and sickened me.

Often Megamind and I had joked that in fictional settings we were head over heels for the bad-guys but in real life we would never fall for someone cruel and abusive...Unless of course they were Joker and Dr. Crane, then we could _definitely_ tolerate them. But the inverse of the conversation never crossed my mind. In fact, the very possibility of Dr. Crane being _nice_ was so absurd I laughed it off immediately.

Yet it was harder to laugh it off when I was sitting right next to a physical manifestation of my obsession...well, sort of.

Part of me wanted to crush the kindness like putting an animal out of its misery (for surely there would be no chance for it to flourish in the world we lived in) but the other part wanted to shelter it and cultivate it like some sprouting plant bringing a bit of life into a world so metallic and dead.

Actually, the situation reminded me of my Latin class last year in which I had explained my love of Dr. Crane with a friend who then tried to act like Dr. Crane in order to induce the 'hilarious' fangirling that all my friends experienced in some degree or at least teased one another about.

The problem was she had never read any comics or even seen the movies and so she was blindly speaking, attempting to get in character with only my verbal descriptions of his personality. Of course, this was _very_ humorous to see her try so hard but it was also aggravating, _eyebrow twitching_ aggravating.

It wasn't enough to merely be cruel; she had to include his intelligence and arrogance. There wasn't an overflow of profanity or slandering words but cold, calculated responses. He wasn't simply an ass, he was a character whose very creation was deeply rooted in abuse and the ideals of vengeance.

While talkative he was also observant; while quite knowledgeable in matters of psychology he was clueless toward social functions and human interaction, always attempting to pin a motive on innocent deeds. There was more than a pretty face and cold eyes, there was a burning _obsession_ centered on fear.

He strove to drive out fear from himself, to once more become the master of his life. He decided to use his own tormentor on others, bringing their fears not only to mind with precise conversation, directed toward the instability in the minds of others, but to _life_ with his chemical prowess.

There was so much _more_ to him than a generalization and so I quickly put an end to her attempts and promised I'd show her a comic sometime if she was interested while mentally raging at the misunderstanding that he faced not only from those who were uninformed (which wasn't necessarily a fault) but from those who _were. _

Was it my writer's ego again? Pushing past all reasonable behavior in favor of obsessing over his works, his appearances, his words, his very _smell_ until I felt satisfied I had truly understood him—which I didn't. I was murderously jealous and incredibly awestruck by the creator of Dr. Crane, the brilliance which sprouted this wonderful mastermind.

Whether he be a ragamuffin school-teacher who turned to a life of crime to support his monetary desires and fear-inclined motives after the ridicule of his department toward his shabby clothes grew too much to handle (wouldn't a few months of budgeting simply solve his imbalance of his book fund vs. clothes fund?) or a struggling youth striving to survive a life of abuse which led to a fateful discovery, calculated revenge, and consequent devotion to fear itself and punishment to those who humiliated and opposed him, I loved him.

An obsession with Batman (which I never quite bought into), a troubled youth who grew into a psychologist that enjoyed experimenting on his patients with fear, an eccentric teacher who shot a vase with a gun which in turn injured a student and ended his career as it began his desire for revenge, or any other version instilled me with complete admiration of the creators as well as the character himself.

Although perhaps it was my rabid fangirl? Foaming at the mouth from the very thought that there were others who claimed to love him when _I _knew that no one could love him like I did (although that was an incredibly selfish and ignorant statement, my fangirl was like the Id: ruled by base desires and impervious to logic).

I knew I wasn't alone in my fangirldom and there was a good reflection of that for if only one person loved the character would the character really be worth its existence? Sure some villains are easily despised and written off as unlovable (whether in the public reception of the character or as a romantic interest) but they're not rendered useless.

The fanbase for Dr. Crane was filled with three episode-junkies who assumed total understanding of the character from glimpses, those who knew of the character and enjoyed reading or writing about him, hardcore fans who studiously followed the character and his mannerisms, past, etc., and then those obsessive few who practically lived in a fantasy-world if only to be closer to him, constantly drawing connections between reality and fiction, always thinking on him.

This was all essential and fair but my fangirl was bestial and possessive, unwilling to share while wishing more would understand—quite a contradiction.

So between the frenzies of my inner fangirl, the _need_ to accurately portray him from my writer's ego, and the weary medium of rationality that was my conscious (ultimately an ironic parallel of the Id, Super Ego, and Ego) I took each event in stride—usually.

This more recent event of a _real_ Dr. Crane had my fangirl working in overdrive, my writer's ego committing every mannerism to memory, and my conscious trying to figure out what the fuck was going on.

Then the even more recent realization that this 'Dr. Crane' was really a _Mr. Crane_ who was _nice_ had every bit of me jumbled and out of sorts with absolutely no balance between extremes.

I loved him; I wanted to possess every bit of him from the knowledge of his daily life to his heart.

I hated him; I wanted to possess the _real_ Dr. Crane not some confused, alternative reality 'Mr. Crane' that was _nice_.

"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do," he exhaled frustratedly.

Oh yes, I hated him...

His pale eyes flashed toward me, "What is supposed to happen after I 'remember'?"

I sighed again, "You'll begin a life in which you will finally reach your true potential."

He smirked, hoping to ease the tension by breaking off into a tangent, "It seems to me, you've begun to prescribe to the Humanistic approach. Perhaps you're finally realizing those outdated Behaviorism tactics are faulty?"

Oh yes, I _really _hated him...

I rubbed my forehead with my eyes closed, trying to massage away the pains of my headache but failing as I reiterated the purpose _yet again_, "Listen, you lived a difficult life but you have the ability to take the power back, the power that others stole from you when they terrorized you—"

"But I have the power already—" I peered through my fingers and was met with his sharp eyes, "I am a successful man, soon to be a _doctor_, I have persevered through discipline and optimism, patience and hope—Those bullies are behind me, they are stuck in a vicious cycle whereas I'm free."

What?

I shook my head tiredly, "_No_...that's not what happened," I gave a slight groan before rubbing my eyes and removing my hands from my face entirely so as to face him straight on, "You're obviously not free if you're returning to the very people that abused you. A life of a psychiatrist isn't about healing, it's about _control_.

'You want to take that control back, hold them accountable for the misery they spread and the fear they sow. You're not interested in bettering them but turning the tables and dictating their behavior—Quite _Behavioristic_ if you ask me."

He shook his head about to argue but I cut him off, "And before you go on about the possibility of some 'optimum' human being, let me remind you that those people are _beyond_ help—"

"Like you?" he asked, head tilted condescendingly.

I flinched, silent for a moment as my eyes no doubt betrayed my pain and surprise, "I _don't _need help..."

He cleared his throat and took on an expression although he was forced to break some embarrassingly obvious news to someone, "Oh but you _do_, Revis. I—"

**"Stop."**

He would _not_ rebel against me again.

He raised an eyebrow, "Did you not believe I wouldn't figure it out? You let your guard down and I was able to get inside _you_ instead," my eyes widened with horror as I unconsciously began to shift away causing him to smirk, his servile behavior rapidly disappearing.

"Yes _Revis_, I've taken great note of your behaviorisms, triggers, and consequent reactions and might I say you're one of the most pathetic cases I've come across."

He in turn shifted toward me, his body seeming to grow with his rising arrogance, "Severe anxiety, most likely drawn from a past abuse—definitely emotional, perhaps physical as well—Scattered thoughts, delusionary inclinations, unstable moods, and most importantly a great _fear_ deep within."

H-He...How dare he!

I clenched my fists together, earning myself a pointed reminder of my scraped palms—Had it only been since yesterday that this battle began?

Damn, did I not think of all the obligations I held? Did I so earnestly believe I could awaken some dormant 'Dr. Crane-esque' gene within the man?

Then what? Would I join him in a quest for inciting fear into the general populace?

No matter how much I wished it, I was _not_ Revis—

I stared at the ground, trying to restrain the gaping hole in my heart threatening to consume me in a frenzy of instability.

Words tumbled from my mouth despite the flurry of thoughts within my head, "Let's not try to change to subject—"

I stopped abruptly, rubbing my eyes as I enjoyed the chance to close them and relieve them from the bright light of the midday sun while faintly recalling that I hadn't finished my sentence and I was probably reinforcing the image of an unstable...unstable...an unstable—

How could I have been so blind?!

To think that my story, a method to stay _above_ the tempting, terrifying world of fantasy, had twisted my world into something unreal, something **crazy**, once more—

Ugh, I was beyond disgusted.

Sighing, I forced myself to open my eyes and make my mind focus back to the situation within room, noting his steely eyes were trained on me.

Fucking great.

"We're here to focus on you—" I began shakily.

"Why should I listen to a deranged highschooler?"

More lashes of blistering shame filled me.

"We need to cut your dependency," I spoke as though I hadn't heart him but then paused as his words cut deeper within the echo of my mind, "Perhaps we've had the wrong approach. It wasn't solely the bullies but also your Granny—"

"**Don't** bring my Granny into this," he snapped.

I looked up, sensing weakness and pouncing on it, "Why? What happened to your Granny, Jonathan?"

His nostrils flared as his body tensed, "Don't call me 'Jonathan' either..."

I narrowed my eyes, "Why not, _Jonathan?_"

His jaw clenched before relaxing as he sighed boredly, shaking his head pityingly, "Really Revis, are you going off on your newest delusion, some belief that you _know_ me, yet _again?_"

I paled, before standing swiftly and wincing at the strain of my knee, "It's not a delusion—If it was, how would I know so much about your past? Your _Granny_ even? Your reaction couldn't have just been an act!"

His eyes grew colder than before, "Oh but an act it was, how else would I be able to build a detailed analysis of the situation, _your_ behaviorisms? Besides, the lace curtains were an indication and the rest was pure speculation."

Could it all have been a front?

"What about your childhood, the bullies?" I shot back defiantly, still struggling to understand what had happened that turned the conversation from strained to explosive.

He raised an eyebrow, "The majority of adults have experienced bullying in some form or another, the similarity is nothing to be astounded about."

Dammit! How could I convince him? Why was he even second-guessing me? He had believed me up till this point—or had he?

He stood as well and smiled an unsettling, terrifying _smile_ full of screams and sinister promises, "_Now _you will witness the true depth of your folly."

Desperate to gain _any_ leverage, I shot back with the best ammunition I had, "Like your Granny did when you killed her?"

Even if I had punched him in the stomach, his reaction wouldn't have been so winded, "I-I did **no** such thing."

"Oh, but you _did_," I pressed the matter, walking closer to him, "You killed her and you _liked it_."

His eyes flashed toward mine: a warning.

A warning I ignored, "How did you do it, _Jonathan?_"

He held his head although he was fighting off a headache—Great, that made two of us.

**"I didn't!"** he barked.

"Yes, you did!" I yelled at him, surprising myself with the force of my conviction—but then again, time for subtleties was passed.

He opened his mouth to speak but exhaled jaggedly, cradling his head, "I-I love my Granny very mu—"

"No, you _hated_ her; she ruined you, Jonathan. **Ruined.**"

"S-Stop," his hissed, clearly on the verge of losing it but I didn't care—

He _would_ remember.

"It was at night wasn't it?" I asked, purely speculating but too upset to back down, "I bet she didn't see it coming—She didn't think you had the _spine_ to so much as talk back. And why would you? She raised you to be unquestioning, always _fearing_."

He turned sharply to the right and punched the wall, "STOP IT!"

The yelling turned my legs to Jell-O but I continued trying with all my might to not let the tremble reach my voice, "No. I won't stop, like she didn't stop. Didn't stop when you asked her, _begged _her to spare you."

"I-" he shook his head, muttering to himself in a manner totally undignified and most definitely _not_ like Dr. Crane.

Oh, did I break him?

Suddenly he sucked in a ragged breath and staggered back to the couch, collapsing as he held his face.

"No. No. No. No. No," he moaned, over and over.

I watched with a sick fascination, watching him unfold was liberating and depressing, my thirst for vengeance battling my desire for him to truly become Dr. Crane.

Was that even possible anymore?

Had it ever been?

I frowned, watching him closely.

Finally he snapped.

It began with tears.

They were so transparent, I hadn't realized they were there until they stained his lightly coloured sleeves.

Then his shoulders began to shake with grief.

I swallowed uncomfortably.

His sobs grew louder—

I shifted uneasily.

Louder still they grew—

Wait, was that laughter?

Wary and quite disturbed, I watched as his whole body shook with suppressed laughter even as his sleeves continued to darken with tears.

The sight was unnerving, the sort of twisted horror that could reduce me to tears almost instantaneously—and it probably would have if he hadn't lifted his tear tracked face and smiled widely.

"I killed her..."

I was unsure if I should respond or bolt from the room but before I could decide he continued, "I had _enough_," he sucked in a rough breath, "of her...and so I killed her."

Would it be wise to leave now?

"It was at night...she didn't believe I would harm her although she had grown frail and I strong. She was too senile to realize the power had shifted."

Would he attack me if I tried?

"So when I crept in her bedroom one night, she thought I had only come to read to her as she often requested...but when I leaned over her, not to fluff her pillow as she expected but to rip it from under her and then press it over her ugly, gaping mouth."

Could I run fast enough?

"That mouth was putrid, mostly gum and possessing only the crooked remnants of teeth—She hadn't her dentures in or else her howls might have formed words."

Gooseflesh covered my skin—I should leave...

"She still tried to fight with her thin arms weakened by arthritis...It must have _burned_," he smiled sweetly in remembrance.

I trembled—I should _really_ leave...

"I didn't remember at first...I hadn't a clue where she was until the next day, after work, I went up to her room. I recall dreading each step, wishing the old bat would just **die** and leave me in peace...then I found her."

He wiped his face, growing more composed by the second, "I couldn't understand _why_ she had died with her hands clawed into the blankets, a pillow strewn over her head; it didn't even occur to me that she had been killed—and by _myself_ no less! I only knew she was dead...and I was free."

He cleared his throat then tilted his head inquiringly, "Would you like to see her grave? It's just outside where the flowerbed is withered...Of course, you won't be buried there but perhaps you would like to see it anyway? After all, you're training to become a mortician—or at least, you _were_."

I immediately caught onto the use of past-tense and knew I had stayed too long but the moment I took a reflexive step back he shot up and matched me step for step.

"Simply put, a secret is best kept between two men: one alive and one dead—or in this situation, a nutcase of a teenager."

I felt a sharp pain in my heart before waves of punitive disbelief coursed through my veins.

No! This wasn't how it was supposed to happen!

I struggled to speak, "I'm more valuable than you think—" he scoffed causing me to pause before continuing with more vigor than before seeing as I was running out of room between us, "I can assist you in your work; I can help refine your toxins; I can torture or kill whomever you wish—Please, _please_ believe me."

He donned a mocking expression, "You expect me to believe that you, a mere _highschooler_, is capable of all that? I—"

I cut him off, "It's true!" I swallowed before speaking more cautiously noting I had only two steps before the wall, "I once had I delusion in which I had the past life of an inhuman contracted killer, not only did I witness the flashbacks of my deeds but I grew to reenact them through mental manifestations in alternate realities. I know now that those three years are false but the mindset, the ability to fall into the depths of sadism and execute _any_ requirement, remains."

If anything I perked his curiosity but he was far too skeptic to consider my offer much further, "As interesting as your malady is, I have far too many _delicate_ roles to fulfill before I am in a position worthy of your...'skills'."

Gooseflesh crept over my skin but I refused to admit failure, "What of your fear toxins? Ergotism refined into chemical perfection, the ultimate catalyst of St. Anthony's Fire? It's not perfected, not yet—but I can assist you!"

He furrowed his eyebrows, "I assure you, I have no knowledge of whatever 'fear toxin' you're spewing nonsense about. While my stay here has been brief it was also necessary but it is time that I move on to complete my—"

"What bullshit! Your toxin is your pride and joy!" his eyes flashed dangerously but I continued heedlessly, "You've spent _years_ working on it—"

He took a slow step toward me, the air became electric with his dark intentions causing my near-dormant instincts took control, forcing me stop mid-sentence in order to bolt out of the room and around the hallway nevermind the fact that I didn't know the layout of the house despite my time spent here.

Quickly he was gaining on me which caused me to flee around another corner and enter the kitchen, I didn't hear footsteps behind me as I glanced over my shoulder quickly but when I turned to face the second entryway of the kitchen I screamed, running into his waiting arms.

He took my momentum and flung me against the wall causing me to cry out in panic—**blind panic.**

My hair was a flurry of brown, my pale hands giving white streaks to the dark hallway, my struggling body refused to be contained even as I felt my face flush at the feel of his hands.

Hands. Rough hands. Destroying hands. **Defiling** hands.

The terror branded me over and over in searing bursts of not-so-forgotten memories, utter revulsion, and quickly rising remnants of trauma.

Thankfully he had not yet been taught body-binds or other defensive moves as a hell like Arkham would require and so I was able to tear myself away, half stumbling and half running.

Although my heart was pounding, my breath ragged, and my nerves alit with adrenaline I was able to think of something desperately important: my flash-drive.

Without it I would lose _years_' worth of research, stories, and other sentimental pieces of writing. My writing was my life; I couldn't leave without it.

A scream caught in my throat as I felt his hands grasp my shawl, but after shrugging it off my twisting arms I continued to dart back to the brightly lit living room hoping my leg wouldn't slow me.

I scanned the room quickly then grabbed the first weapon I spotted.

Heart pounding I turned back in time to see him rush in after me and into a face full of porcelain.

I heard the vase shatter and trusted it to distract him long enough for my stumbling fingers to unzip the pouch on the outside of my backpack (thankfully it hadn't been moved since yesterday!) and retrieve—

Dammit! Where was it?!

I shakily shuffled through the useless papers and baubles I kept in the pouch searching for the tell-tell feel of the yellow ribbon my flash-drive was attached to—

**Thud.**

Disoriented, my head pounded striving to match my heart, beat per beat, as I found myself pressed uncomfortable against the couch, my head awkwardly forced against the wall by my throat.

Any confusion I felt was wiped away when I took in the cold fury within his eyes as he held me securely, one hand wrapped around my throat the other holding both my wrists captive while his elbows and knees made good of their pointed structure as they drove into my collarbone, stomach, and thigh.

He was hardly out of breath from the attack yet something about his presence seemed different—_deranged_ almost—and despite his collected demeanor I was able to see the strains of something wild surfacing.

"Would you like to know how you're going to die?"

I opened my mouth but he continued on, indifferent of his rude interruption as he pressed into my throat further, no longer restraining me but decreasing the amount of blood to flow to my head by pressing against my jugular.

"It won't be quick and it won't be painless..."

I attempted to twist out of his grip but he held me fast, "I-I don't think it's tact at all that's driven you this far," I gasped unable to finish reminding him of our earlier conversation as he pushed his sharp elbow further into my collarbone.

The message was clear: shut up.

Lightheaded but determined to speak I continued, "To me, when you were flushed, _clearly_ agitated, and screaming in between broken sobs, your 'tact' seemed more like _incompetence_."

Perhaps it was my own story that reassured me and instilled me with such confidence to speak so rashly when I was clearly at a disadvantage. Within my story there had been _countless_ instances in which Dr. Crane had kept Revis when it would be so much easier, so much _smarter_, to kill her.

Just because he threatened me with death didn't mean he'd follow through...

Of course his reasons for sparing her were far from reassuring but I wasn't too worried about surviving a life with Dr. Crane's arrogance, ambition, and general asshole behavior.

That is...If he were to allow me to survive.

The only flaw in my logic was that he _wasn't_ Dr. Crane and I _wasn't_ Revis.

"Oh believe me, _Revis_, I have been using tact this whole time..." he smirked as he began to relax his grip on my throat allowing the blood to rush to my head unimpeded.

I lowered my head, exhaling and inhaling deeply while (vainly) fighting trembles, "Then why bother letting me in—that wasn't very tactful," I tried to even out my breathing before I continued, "_Most_ adults would ask if I were alright then continue on their way completely indifferent to the pain of others. You invited me in..."

I raised my head, my eyes burning, "Why?"

At first he seemed as though he was uncertain of the reason himself yet quickly a smooth explanation saturated the air with absolute conviction, "You were merely a decorative touch to my alibi. _Most _adults wouldn't question the event of a fire within an elderly woman's home while her great-grandson was out yet some might speculate as to _why_ there weren't any remains found in the fire."

Chills ran down my spine, "Y-You're burning the house?"

He smirked, "Yes, and you along with it..." he drank up my horrified face eagerly, "Congratulations Revis, you've made tonight's headlines."

Although I was slowly piecing together his story through my panicked thought process I still didn't understand everything.

If he found his Granny dead why didn't he report the death? Of course, he hated her but by notifying _others_ he would be freed of the responsibility.

Then why would he burn the house?

My heart sank as I understood his logic.

In the event of an accident (such as a fire) he would inherit everything his Granny had.

That filthy bastard was killing me for a payout?!

A frenzy overtook me as I tensed, readying myself to attack—

Only to be driven onto the couch once more, this time lying supine against its cushions with him practically straddling me.

My voice rose to a bloodcurdling pitch before he muffled my screams with his hand across my mouth.

"Be silent!" he harshly spat.

Yet still I squirmed below him, my arms struggling to push him off of me—

Damn, why was I so weak?

Inadvertently he glanced toward my arms and took in the sight of my predominant scar across my left bicep; the thick, raised band of skin possessing a pinkish, purplish tint, often filled others with a stomach twisting curiosity but he seemed to relish in it for his air of superiority returned.

"Oh, do you have a penchant for self-harm as well? How _quaint_, Revis."

Anger and shame burned me over and over in rising torrents yet I continued to (ineffectively) fight against him.

I saw the frustration on his face as he fought to keep me from ruining his precious plans—

Ha! It wasn't so easy to keep some captive, was it?

Already his eyes were scanning the room looking for something which he could use to subdue me with yet no matter his dissipated attention I could not overthrow him.

Exhaling angrily, he looked back to me scowling but something must have caught his eye around the ground—

Oh no, not my flash-drive!

As though my thoughts directed his eyes he soon noted the glimmer of the gold, transparent ribbon peeking out of my backpack and despite my curled fist that was quite uselessly striking his chest he easily scooped up the device from the pouch and sprung up from the couch in order to bring distance between ourselves.

"Hmm...and what is this?" he asked.

Of course he would prefer a verbal confrontation and abuse through psychological means; neither of us were suited toward physical disputes although he far surpassed me in measures of strength.

Panting and desperate to have my flash-drive back I sat up quickly but abided by the warning look in his eyes and remained were I was.

"What could be so important about this bit of technology, hm?"

I swallowed nervously hoping with all my might he wouldn't harm it.

That flash-drive was all that kept me sane. I carried it with me everywhere; I even wore it for a while until the ribbon tore causing me to tie it once more, sadly too short for me to comfortably wear.

But what was more soothing than typing for hours, allowing my mind to expand the empty air around me with the imaginary threads of my story, feeling the characters and events weave together to the beat of music as my beloved flash-drive glowed in small pulses like a mirror to my own heart?

I couldn't let him destroy it...

"It has no importance to you, return it to me," spoke calmly but with a warning edge in my tone.

Of course, he took no heed of it, "I hardly see the importance taking into consideration you'll be dead within the hour."

What? No! I couldn't leave my story unfinished! That story was the biggest part of me! Every tainted bit of me became a bit of Revis; every lapse of sanity turned into new content for a chapter; every fear and ambition became wrapped into the contours of my ever-adapting plot—I couldn't lose it!

"Although..." he mused aloud, causing me to feel a burning despair as I realized I could very well lose something so vital—shamefully I noted my eyes began to fill with tears, "Since you seem so _attached_ perhaps we could work out an agreement?"

My eyes flickered about the room, searching for another vase or some object to strike him with but just as I thought of the discarded knife within the nearby bathroom, he brought my attention to him once more, "Tsk tsk Revis, would you truly risk injury to your beloved flash-drive," he began to stride toward me, arrogance dancing in those pale eyes, "simply to attempt to turn the tables once more? Believe me, Revis, you won't live long enough for any minor achievement to amount to anything."

Before I could lunge for the general direction of the knife and hope to return before he harmed my flash-drive he sauntered over, too close to chance a sprint.

I was trapped.

"Get up," he ordered.

Involuntarily I jerked forward but didn't stand, my eyes still trained on the general direction of the blade.

"Revis..." he called, piercing me over and over with a gaze so poisonous I didn't need to look into it to feel its deadly fingers splaying over my body.

Head bowed, I stood defeated.

He delayed slightly, doing what I didn't bother raising my head to find out, but soon he tightly gripped my arm and began to pull me through the maze of the house, up the stairs, and into a room at the end of the hallway—

Could I overpower him?

A sly glance under my eyelashes revealed his painfully blank face and my flash-drive held securely in his other hand.

What were the chances I could retrieve my flash-drive unharmed—

Unwillingly I flinched as his cold eyes met mine, "Don't try anything rash," he drawled, oozing superiority in a manner I had once fangirled over but now found disgusting.

Without further ceremony he pushed me into the room and swiftly traded my flash-drive for a roll of duct tape atop the bookshelf.

The irony hit me full force but my eyes were caught on my flash-drive...so close but oh so far away.

Lifelessly I allowed him to bind my bare wrists together—

Would it melt away in the blaze? No, I needed to think productively.

Could I win?

Next came my knees and ankles.

Was it even worth it anymore?

Lastly he stood and smirked down at my compliant form obviously enjoying my powerless disposition before taking as strip of duct tape and wrapping it around my mouth and the back of my head three times.

I winced at the thought of the pain required to take it off.

"I will say while troublesome, your visit has me reconsidering a few points...The power of fear is in itself is unlimited and some methods of Behaviorism may prove useful. Perhaps one day I'll utilize them to achieve any purposes that the Humanistic approach may not adequately cover. Likewise the possibilities of using a chemical to impress unfathomable fear into others would be worth investigating..."

I glared at him, unwillingly silent.

He chuckled lightly at my reaction before gently swooping down and placing a mocking kiss on my forehead before pushing me off balance and enjoying my panicked fall to the floor. Although the impact stunned me I was able to glance up at him without faltering in my rage—

_Take__ this kiss upon the brow!_

_And, in parting from you now,_

_Thus much let me avow—_

The first stanza of the poem I had thought of earlier now echoed in my head as the fear of the situation became **very** real.

_You are not wrong, who deem_

_That my days have been a dream;_

This wasn't some parody of my story, a semi-real impression of some struggle between Dr. Crane and Revis, this was **real.**

W-Would I really die?

_Yet if hope has flown away_

_In a night, or in a day,_

_In a vision, or in none,_

_Is it therefore the less __gone?_

Sniplets of my life, my mother, my brother, my sister, our pets, my amazing elementary teacher, the loving group of friends I possessed, Megamind—

Tears fell freely at the thought of never seeing her again.

So often I cried over fears of losing Megamind whenever she was forced to depart from the state for the sake of her family or other means such as college but never had I believed that _I_ might be the one leaving _her_ behind.

A cold splash of overwhelming grief hit me as he stared at me with a smug expression.

That bastard...

Had he no compassion for the lives of others? Did he truly not care—

Who was I fooling? I knew he was apathetic to the suffering of others; I once fell over myself with overwhelming attraction toward such coldhearted behavior—

What a fool I was.

"Oh, I believe this belongs to you..." he spoke softly, a mockery of his earlier manners as he tossed my flash-drive just in front of my face.

I was victim to a muted fury, a silent contempt, for I was unable to unleash any sort of rage as I was: bound and gagged, crying pathetically at the loss of my life.

Oh God...I was going to die.

_All__ that we see or seem_

_Is but a dream within a dream_.

My lips trembled beneath the layers of duct tape silencing my pleas but he remained untouched as he retrieved the lost cellphone—When had he gotten it?

"Now Revis, I believe it's time for my departure...I'm expecting a tragic phone call of a devastating fire."

I glared up at him forcing all of my pain and hatred, panic and delirium, into my stare.

Yet without another thought to my life, he carefully left, quickly dousing the my hopes that somehow I could bargain with him—

Who was I fooling? It was over...

Uncaring of the horrid man I had once envisioned a life with, I turned my face into the moist carpet sobbing.

My grief began to lose form: images of my life, memories of happier times, all of it began to fade away until my last thoughts were of Megamind...

Oh Megamind...

Too choked to express my regrets and longings, I let the image of my closest friend fade as well in order to lose myself to despair, praying in earnest.

Here...I would die here.

As much as I wished to wake from this nightmare I knew it was very **real.**

It began with the heat...

The heat rose from below as loud cracks of burning wood and hisses of incinerating furnishings reached my ears.

I began to wonder how he had set the fire; it needed to be accidental for any profit—Perhaps he lit a candle too close to a curtain?

Soon smoke began to flood the hallway and overpower the room; the noises grew closer; the heat became unbearable.

I distantly registered my arms moving, twisting my wrists in hopes of loosening the duct tape. He was foolish enough to tie my wrists in front of me instead of behind, but smart enough to cover my mouth so I would be unable to chew through the thick bindings.

The house screeched in agony, its body consumed by the inferno of hate.

Maybe I couldn't free myself this way, but what if I managed to stand and break the window? I could fall to safety—or straight into the crackling fire downstairs that had no doubt spread to the lawn if the pluming smoke outside was any indication.

All my efforts were in vain; I could not escape from the deadly fire I had helped create.

It began with the foundation which had cleared away all love until all that remained were layers of pain; the wood, a humbled spirit, was slaughtered before its due time; the kindle was cruel as well, certain to provoke the fire further should it ever come; the kerosene, what turned a flame into a blaze, I had provided that...

And the spark?

The spark was fear...

It burned its body, was provoked by all around it as it was trapped within painful confines and then with the proper catalyst it exploded and would now destroy everything until all that was left was ash.

Forever it would burn, until it at last consumed itself.

I gathered my flash-drive in my palms, bitterly noting the dark parallel of my situation to countless others although instead of holding a rosary or cross in hand, I held a small bit of technology that had once meant the world to me.

The golden ribbon glowed faintly in the growing firelight as the stairs were consumed.

Well, it seems in the end I was granted my wish...the foolish wish of a writer.


End file.
